


Blue Roses

by 57_percent



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57_percent/pseuds/57_percent
Summary: Through rain-slicked sidewalks and the low light of midnight cities, Taric chases the form of a man who captivated him with not much else than a gaze from beyond the crossroads of fate.





	Blue Roses

        A jarring series of beeps; the sound that Taric most commonly woke up to in the morning. They roused the slumbering man from his near-comatose state of rest, a long-deserved bout of sleep after the simply outlandish happenings of the night prior. A party, a once-in-a-lifetime (for him, it was perhaps closer to once-in-a-week) chance to mingle and bond with members of the city he called home. It was riveting & loud, one clad with neon lights that still bore into his eyes even though they had been shut off long ago – or perhaps it was just the glare of the midday sunlight that billowed in through the slats of his curtains, light which seemed to set his corneas ablaze. Jadedly, he tossed his forearm across his eyes (an appendage which was, without a doubt, still laced with a quite copious amount of glitter) in a vain attempt to rid himself of the deep-settled pain which the sunlight brought on.

        It was a wild weekend, apparently. Nothing short of a truly monumental party could leave him this hungover. Though he willed his body to rise, all it did was stumble over the simple command & slump out of his bed; he sat as upright as he possibly could within that moment. A simple glance across the room to his vanity told him all he needed to know about the events of last night’s raucous happenings. Clad in a lazily-donned tank top & what appeared to be the tightest pants in existence, not a single facet of his being was considered presentable to the public eye. Last night’s makeup was smeared quite haphazardly across one side of his face, and he had no clue as to how his hair could be matted up in so many awkward directions at once. Perhaps, he told himself, this was the lowest he had ever sunk before; he was mistaken. However, to live in ignorance is to live in bliss & tranquility, and thus he chose to pay no worship to the garish makeup, nor his tangled hair, nor the conspicuous marks trailing down his collar bone – surely, a telltale sign of just how much had happened at that party – and instead chose to focus on the glass of water placed delicately upon the vanity’s table.

        Even when entirely plastered & disoriented, Taric knew how to take care of a man.

        Miraculously, he managed to find his way towards the glass, although his pants restricted almost all the blood flow to his legs & his head pounded with the fury of a wartime drummer’s song. Were he to make an attempt at kicking off the outrageously tight slacks, it would be one made in vain, as he would surely tumble down to meet the plush carpet below him. Restricted & bound to his poor life choices, he downed the room-temperature water with gusto.

        Both his hands were pressed to the light wood of the desk, equal parts supporting him & stabilizing him. Now came the time-consuming task of making himself presentable. With this much to work on, Taric knew he would be spending a few extra minutes to expertly craft his appearance that morning (of course, morning is a subjective descriptor – he hadn’t the foggiest as to what time it was) and ensure his typical brand of glamor was maintained. A near-despondent chuckle fell from tired lips as he looked up, brushed away the hair that fell like a curtain across his face, and examined himself fondly.

        “Alright, Taric... You’ve got this, darling. You had better wow them all today.”

        His morning routine, while lengthy & rather time-consuming, was one of the most important facets of his day. Though his features had already been chipped from marble & sculpted intimately by the hands of a deity, nothing truly brought him quite as much energy & joy than applying a fresh layer of makeup in the early hours of the morning. Still, it remained unknown as to whether these were even the early hours yet; regardless of such a trivial matter, his routine remained as usual. Less-than-dexterous hands reached out to pull his chair from where it sat flush against the desk, and within that moment, it became obscenely apparent that his appearance was well below the standard daily quota of dazzle.

        “That is alright – we can easily fix this.”

        Something gentle, something understated; today wasn’t the kind of day for zest & an explicit amount of shimmer. A nuanced sort of look, one that could compliment his drab, almost lazy tone for the day – however, he needed something that could do that and mask the gossamer sheet that his hangover had draped across his being.

        In other words, he needed a miracle.

        ...Or, perhaps, he simply needed the small bottle that sat at the foot of the table. Foundation, a kind that matched his skin tone to a degree he once thought was impossible. That, a fine layer of contour, and perhaps some eye liner & mascara were all he truly needed for this day. If he so desired a spicier flair for this relatively adequate day, perhaps he would include a touch of eyeshadow. Contemplating the options, Taric figured that this entire process would take just as long regardless of what he did, and he was never one to pass up an extra shot at bringing his inner beauty to the outside (a facet of his being that was still quite beautiful).

        Though it took quite some time (and a rather substantial amount of positive monologuing) Taric eventually shaped himself into a presentable member of society. While the absolutely distraught travesty still remained deep within, it was marred down by at least two hours of work alongside a full mask of immaculately & professionally detailed makeup. He fancied himself an avid guru of beauty-related matters. Though it took a rather momentous while to cover each blemish from the night prior, alongside masking the visceral exhaustion that crept up upon his visage, it was an ordeal that was well worth it in the end. The time spared permit him a long while to both gussy up & emotionally prepare himself for the task of being himself in the modern world with a series of increasingly self-adoring reassurance.

Sure, he was mildly (majorly) hung over, though that did not mean he was incapable of providing for himself to some degree. A sole modicum of fabricated decency was the final thread he was strung to, and not even the blade of his poor life choices & indecent level of restraint with alcohol could sever that bond. As he gazed at himself lovingly, he thought that truly, this was the face of a man who was ready to take on whatever the day had in store for him.

        Next came the arduous task of dressing himself. In a perfect world, he could simply step outside in what he was wearing with little more than a fleeting care, however this world was far from flawless; though it possessed great beauty & many a redeeming quality, it was woefully underprepared for the level of sheer freedom Taric wished to take with his wardrobe. Thus, he settled with a rather dignified rose button-up and black pants. He figured he should be prepared for whatever the day threw at him, be it fire, flood, or...

        His phone buzzed once more. Certainly, he had turned his alarm off, hadn’t he? The curious tone beckoned him towards the cellular device propped up on his bedside table, between a lavender candle & what he could only assume to be a bottle of either moisturizer or hand cream. How very typical of him. His weary eyes strained to focus on the near microscopic text on his phone.

        Monday... was it Monday? Truly?

        ...2:47pm. That seemed just about right. As it so happened, it was not a stray alarm that had roused his attention; the message upon his phone screen spoke of a wild & elaborate tale, one of a co-worker who required a spare day to cope with a sickness which rendered them unable to attend their shift that day. For a brief moment, he considered leaving the message to another one of his friends... Were he to accept, his would be his 3rd extra shift that week. It mattered not, especially not to a man of his disposition. Renewed with energy, Taric quickly replied to the plea for aid with a simple message; he would take the shift. In turn, his co-worker had to promise to rest up, and not do anything to put themselves in any sort of discomfort or danger. As the message sent, he told himself that it was the least he could do for a friend in need.

        Not once did he think for himself. With each bit of his soul delivered unto an ally, another void was left to fill with love – another hole, marred with the satisfaction of aiding those in need.

        The shift started at 3:15. There was a very short window of opportunity to attend his newfound spell of work, though with enough hustle in his step & a quick exit, he could easily make it. Quickly, he shed the layer of doubt that obscured his mind & instead chose to bear the cloak of a fine plush coat, draped across his shoulders and set – ready for a quick escape. Though one may call his fashion shocking, or (dare he say it) outrageous, he found solace in the individuality which his manner of dress permits him. Alongside the smothering layer of makeup he bore on the daily, his diverse array of clothing allowed him to bolster his own sense of confidence. Were he so bold, perhaps he would label himself something along the lines of a ‘fashion deity’.

        Paying no mind to his out of place self-bolstering habits, Taric snatched his keys from the tray in which they typically rest just beside his door, and began the trek to his work with haste.

 

\-----

  


        Doran’s Bar & Grill – the fine establishment he just so happened to call his home away from home. It was a fine place, if your definition of ‘fine’ was closer to ‘acceptable’. The split second that he walked into the establishment, his senses were berated by a deluge of reminiscence; it was like walking into your childhood home’s kitchen as your mother was preparing her specialty cuisine. Warm, nostalgic, friendly. And with only a touch of barside grease. At the very moment he entered, however, he was also greeted cheerfully (not cockily, Taric had assured himself, cheerfully) by his co-worker – Ezreal.

        ...He was probably the only man Taric would ever be displeased to see.

        “Hey, how are we doing today, Taric?” The blond man stated, emphasizing his words by leaning over the podium he sat at. With a firm (yet woefully weak) fist, he delivered a light punch to Taric’s shoulder.

        Bleary-eyed and groggy from the residual leftovers of last night’s happenings settling in on him – perhaps they settled in tenfold, especially considering how he exerted himself to get here as swiftly as he had – Taric replied with a smile; “I am quite alright, thank you... How about yourself?”

        “Pretty good, pretty good... Listen, Taric, there’s a table of babes at twelve-o’clock – not like you’d care, but still, this is for me – can I get you to take care of seating for a hot second? I've gotta work some of the ol' Ezreal Charm on them. And when I come back, we’re talking about last night. You can’t say no. Peace.”

        Barely waiting for a reply, Ezreal bounded off towards the table in question. Despite any potential objections he may have had to this plan, it became clear that Taric would be seating customers for the next while. Besides, he would far prefer seating guests over watching the twinkish man make an ass of himself in public again. Shrugging off his coat and draping it across the stool that sat behind the podium, he took his seal & attempted to shrug off the headache that begun to bloom in his head with just as much ease as his coat – of course, to no avail. Little more than time could mend that issue for him. Thankfully, he had been blessed with the gift of an extra half of a split shift – plenty of time to nurse his hangover with.  

        His shift had begun. A boundless stream of people seemed to flow in and out of the restaurant, like a tide of mingled faces and icebreakers lost on deafened ears as he led them from table to table. Their faces blended together, and luckily enough, his boundless charisma carried him through the ordeal of introductions and orders. And thus, he led, acting as a shepherd of culinary vocation whose livelihood hung on the balancing act between his disrupted hand-eye coordination and his charm. He was convinced that he would trip over his own feet and drop a customer’s meal, though luckily enough, fate was his husband that eve – and he, its humble lady. Nary a passing glance was shot to Ezreal, who simply sat by and told his tales of grandeur to the ever-enthused fans – they hung off his every word like it was the cliff he was describing in the moment, treacherous and high.

        By the time he finally got to sit down once again, he had figured that his shift must be nearing its end – truly, he had to have spent at least 3 hours transporting food, and faces, and –

        Half an hour had passed. Taric let his head hit the table.

        The rest of his adopted shift slowly passed him by, filled with more or less of the same action; greeting customers at the door, finding them a table, taking orders, et cetera, et cetera. Thankfully enough though, Ezreal soon returned to help out with the job he had so recklessly shunned. With each pass the pair made, another brief segment of conversation was exchanged; Ezreal – true to his word, that man was – persistently bugged Taric about what had happened the night prior. Apparently, within his drunken haze, Taric had made quick work of his night & documented the entire ordeal on each & every social media outlet he possessed.

        As he led a family to their table, he made sure to remind himself to purge his Facebook as soon as he got home.

“So… Let’s talk about last night.”

“Ezreal, truly, I would rather not.”

“Come on, Taric, from what I saw on your most recent posts, it sounded wild.”

“I am afraid I can’t quite remember what happened.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t be so hesitant to tell me.”

“Touché.”

        The night dragged on like several tons of concrete laid bare across a gravel road – it was difficult, arduous, and quite nearly impossible to imagine the agony of trudging through it. As his shift finally ended & he was allowed the brief respite of a 15-minute break, Taric quite nearly collapsed onto the rickety chair in the back room; work usually didn’t grate on him nearly this much, but as his weary legs finally relieved themselves of the pressure they had been under, he realized just how exhausted he was (and that he would likely have to spend another set of hours serving the last thing he wanted near him in the moment – alcohol.)

        He could feel the telltale signs of tears beginning to well up from deep within him. Delicately, he pinched the bridge of his nose as a shudder wracked his body & he partially folded in on himself. A weak whimper tripped its way out of his throat. Not even a minute had passed before tears began to fall freely down his face, for his emotions had bested him once again – regardless of how he wished to tame them, they continuously found ways to pull the wool over his common sense & reign supreme over his life.

        The door opened. Exasperatedly, Taric looked up – face stained with tears, hands trembling, despondent aura stifling the room. Leona had peeked in, chef garb still stained with various foods & juices – she averted her gaze for a brief moment, thinking that she had potentially walked in on something she wasn’t necessarily supposed to see.

        “We’ve stocked the bar,” she stated, albeit awkwardly. “You’re up in about 5. Will you be fine?”

        Taric aggressively wiped his eyes with his sleeve, nodding, and though no words passed through his lips, it was clear that he would not miss his shift for the world. Leona backed off silently, no doubt off to return to the kitchen. Following suit, Taric braced himself for the long day’s work that lay ahead of him.  
  
  
\-----

 

        Business lulled by slowly. Taric's mind buzzed with the thrum of boredom, as he absentmindedly tapped his nails against the countertop. On nights like this, he often busied himself with his favorite activity; people watching. Humans were intriguing. They came in many different forms, and he found that beautiful. He found it stunning. Diversity was a true thing of beauty. Though humanity lived as one, individuality still managed to root itself in the world around him. Beauty, life, love; they all flourished, and they were all worn openly upon the collar of the one. And, after years of learning to read the social tendencies of people to better understand them (he wished to become the most capable and proficient empath he could forge himself into, of course, for the sake of everyone around him) Taric figured out that you could easily tell a person's personality by the little things; be it how they dressed, how they spoke, or even just their name. These individual traits all went into composing a person, making them unique; making them, well, them. 

 

        Taric found it most fun to browse through the reservations and attempt to put a face to the names provided. 

 

        In the midst of his pastime, he caught a glance (a glance which could be likened to the glance of a gourmand judging the presentation of a plate, as in not a glance but a longing gaze which went on for far too long to be comfortable) of a rather intriguing figure that entered the bar alongside individuals who appeared to be some flavour of Burly Jock Sports Man. He swore, he could smell the testosterone and toxic masculinity from his corner of the bar. However, amidst all the partially hushed jock talk and muscles, he was continuously enraptured by the man who sat almost stoically alongside them; spine straight as an arrow and immaculately assembled like a tower of steel Jenga bricks, the brown-haired man did not seem out of place per se, but instead he seemed incapable of wrapping his head around the concept of the word ‘casual’. He bore a suit jacket and a pristine blue shirt (one which, Taric noted, accentuated his rather brawny arms quite well) whereas his buddies all wore some variety of sports jersey or tank top.

 

         Upon his lapel, he bore a single blue rose.

 

        As Taric lost himself in the reverie of his gaze, the man made brief eye contact; the man's eyes sparkled like a sapphire in the deepest fathoms of an ocean, warm and possessing a distant, far away quality. He was struck by the odd clarity of the man’s features, those striking eyes of his burning into his memory with blazing blue embers; even as he looked away, they remained scorched in his head. His memory. His soul. He brought up the reservations tab, and quickly scanned for a name for the face which enraptured him so; only one reservation stood open at this time slot. The name pierced his soul like a white-hot pike. 

 

 

        Garen Crownguard.

  
  


        And that was the first he saw of the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> hooh i've been working on this bad boy for a while and i think i'm finally ready to start posting it. have fun with the adventures of taric being a dumb gay waiter and garen playing football sometimes and all around being buff. 
> 
> anyways https://twitter.com/priarn


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